A Consolidation of Nations, The Final Battle
by sweetsingingwitch
Summary: In a time of war, witches and wizards from around the globe respond to the call to fight in the Final Battle. Each chapter is told from the perspective of a different organization involved in the fight to end Voldemort's tyranny. AU since DH. R&R, please!
1. The USEA

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

The United States Eagle Association

She wasn't going to let them go alone. She stood defiantly in the hallway, wand clenched in her fist, a dangerous glint in her hazel eyes. Her long hair whipped about her in the wind gusts from the open doorway, and her features were set in determined lines. She was five-feet, three-inches of hell for her enemies, and no one was going to stop her from proving it on this night. Her piercing gaze met her second's and she nodded. It was time.

Out into the night the gathering went. Once outside, the group looked at each other for a moment, and then as one raised their wands. They touched the tips in the center, a simple sign of camaraderie and loyalty and then, noiselessly, they disappeared. With luck, they would all return in the morning a free people once again.

She surveyed the scene before her. She knew beyond knowing where her people were in the pre-dawn darkness. They had been planning this maneuver for months, with variations for different locations and conditions. Each person on this mission tonight knew exactly what the plan was—not only for his/her personal mission, but for every single person in the unit. If once person fell, someone else would pick up the tasks needed to bring about victory. She trusted her command, and she knew that no man or woman would fail her. They would be victorious on this night—they had to be.

And then it began. Shooting stars off to her left—the first distraction tactic. As she watched the red and gold sparks dwindle in the distant sky, she recalled something that she had been told once while trying to improve her chess game, "Always protect your center. That's where the most moves are made or lost." She knew now that her chess mentor had been planning this battle even then. He had been strategizing, scheming, and always watching the moves different players used, all for this moment. It was something that she had only learned recently, and it still had the power to astound her. Somehow, at a very early age, Ron had known that he needed to do this. Ron Weasley, who never noticed when there was dirt on his nose, or even when his own robes were on sideways, had noticed that the world needed a strategist. By the time she had met him, he was already well into his battle-plan for the end. She knew, indeed, they all knew, that this plan would be their saving grace.

Many hours later, as she surveyed the ravaged grounds around her, she was relieved to recognize faces amongst those moving in the eerie glow of faded spells. Several of her own were flagging injured and deceased near some trees, a couple of French witches were casting minor healing charms a few yards further, and—her breath caught—a couple of very familiar British fighters were checking each other over to make certain each was intact. She couldn't help but smile as she observed Hermione wiping a smudge of dirt off of Ron's face—maybe now the two would be able to come to terms. In the distance, she could make out the unmistakable form of Ginny Weasley embracing a dark haired man. It was over.

As the American witch continued to take stock of the aftermath, she was amazed at how far they had come in the short time since the Consolidation of Wizarding Nations. She was never more proud of the decision to align the United States Eagle Association with the Brits.


	2. Die BKM

Die bewaffnete Kräfte von Magie

He nearly missed the signal on that fateful night. His favorite pub, Das Verletzte Pferd (a local spot, to be sure), was crowded and he almost dismissed the warmth in his pocket as an aftereffect of his neighbor's close proximity. Almost. When he reached for his coins to pay for his brew, his hand brushed something far too hot to be normal. And then he knew. It was time.

With the faintest of pops, he appeared at the designated location. All around him, his team was already assembling. As his owl appeared with a missive, witches and wizards in various stages of dress shrugged into the fighting uniforms hanging from hooks in the walls. He was forever grateful that the lobby for liederhosen had failed during the planning sessions, though it had been far too close for comfort at the time. As a muggleborn wizard, he failed to appreciate the sometimes old-fashioned tastes of Germany's wizarding population. Word had it that the only reason the uniform resolution had proceeded as it had was that the Minister's daughter fancied the designer of the robes—whatever the reason, he had never been so relieved to see proper robes as he had at his fitting. He snorted. Of all the times to be reminiscing about fashion, he had to pick in the middle of this chaos. With a final shake of his head, he folded the paper he was reading, and stepped onto the dais at the end of the hall.

Pointing his wand at his throat, he began. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the BKM, it has begun. It would appear that the British Order has engaged the Death Eaters in what could very well be the final battle of the Second War. The USEA is following according to plan. Before we go out as well, let me just say this…it has been my great pleasure to work with all of you, and I wish you all the best of luck in this endeavor. Make them all wish they had never crossed wands with the bewaffnete Krafte von Magie, or any of the Consolidation! Geben Sie ihnen Hölle!" As he removed his wand from his throat, a chant rose around the hall, "Geben Sie ihnen Hölle!" Hearing the words repeated from a hundred throats heartened him, and before he disappeared he whispered to himself in English, "Give them hell, indeed."

From the BKM's position on the easternmost edge of the forest, he could see little of the innermost battle. However, if the strength of the engagement on this outer perimeter was any indication, the center must be like the very bowels of Hades itself. As his detachment low-crawled through the underbrush, completely disillusioned, spells zipped just inches above their heads. He could identify the ones coming from behind, more of his ownwizards and witches providing cover for his personal team to make it further in, but not all of the incoming were recognizable. It worried him greatly, but he reminded himself to keep his mind in the present. His best Medics were back at the base—those injured knew where to go. Now he had to focus. His assassin team pressed forward.

As time wore on, he kept track of how many targets his team eliminated. Not for bragging purposes later—no, a true soldier, he would never again mention any of those taken down in the name of freedom—but so that he knew how many more needed to go down before the next phase of the grand plan could proceed with surety. As he motioned to his rear guard, he saw the blue and bronze stars of the second signal take to the skies. Phase Two had begun.

Night had already become day as he led his group, finally, to their ending positions. Not that he could tell the time of day from looking around. The battlefield, if one could call it that, was illuminated by the glow of too many powerful curses cast in too small of a space. The trees that had not been felled by the fight stood as stark contrasts to barren expanses of dirt—all that remained of the once majestic forest. His unit set up to watch and wait.

Time behaves peculiarly in the heat of battle. It seems to come in fits and starts, speeding up and slowing down of its own accord. This fight was no exception. Hours passed in relative quiet after the third signal (yellow and silver)flew as the BKM assassins waited, followed by seemingly brief engagements. Despite the use of silencing charms, little was said amongst the witches and wizards camped there during down time. Hearts and minds were too full of all that they had seen, gained, and lost for more than surface chatter, and that seemed too pointless to even bother with. At times, he would catch himself fingering the identification markers of the men and women he had to leave behind—a form of magical dog-tags that the American leader had insisted on. In a way, he was grateful; each tag automatically disillusioned its owner and marked the position of the deceased when removed. He could make sure that they all made it home, one way or another.

It was during one such quiet interlude that he saw it—a massive explosion of red, gold, blue, bronze, silver, and yellow. He looked up from the tags, and signaled attention to his forces. Far on the horizon, the shape of a glittering golden phoenix rose above the mists—it was over. They had survived. "Danken Sie Merlin, wir sind frei." He whispered. "Thank Merlin, we are free."


	3. ライトの兵士

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

ライトの兵士

(Soldiers of light)

It was morning in Nagoya when the world called to her soldiers. As the early sunshine filtered over the bustling muggle industrial sites, witches and wizards from around the Aichi Prefecture appeared in a seemingly abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The quiet whispers of morning greetings mingled with thinly disguised concern over the impending offensive. Near the center of the gathering, an older man raised his hands for silence.

In the hush that followed, the old man outlined the situation as he knew it, and reminded those assembled to fight bravely and honorably. "The hero among us is not the one who proceeds with haste, but he who proceeds fiercely and thoroughly." There was a murmur of ascent at these words. Honor had been a guiding principle of the Ministry of Magic in Japan for centuries, none present would dare risk the punishments reserved for those deemed "dishonorable" in their society. He favored each of the surrounding fighters with a gentle look, and took the time to meet each valiant witch or wizard's eyes. With barely a minute left before it was time to depart they all bowed to one another in the age-old tradition of respect and stated, "私達はライトの兵士である。We are the Soldiers of Light."

As the battle raged around him, the old man made several rapid calculations. If his men could hold this line for just a few minutes more, the second wave would be in position. All they had to do was…a jet of brilliant magenta light whipped past the old man, missing his shoulder by mere millimeters. He fell back and dropped, instinctively, to the ground. He felt, rather than saw, his companions do the same. He swore softly to himself in Japanese, damning his oversight as he noticed the gap in the ranks. Men in robes of blackest black were streaming up from the valley, white masks glinting sinisterly in the flashes of spell work. He readied his wand and began lobbying hexes back and forth with the oncoming Death Eaters. It was exhausting work, trying to maintain his shield charm and fire off spells without hitting his own troops, but he managed. He counted five…six…seven…down and then noticed a flicker off to his left. Just as he turned to duck and volley back, he saw the curse hurtling towards him. Time slowed down. The words had been unfamiliar, but not the intent. Even as he brandished his wand and started his own incantation, he knew it would not be enough. This was it. And then suddenly it wasn't. A figure hurtled through his line of vision, intercepting the dark spell meant for the old man. The man's body twisted and fell, unmoving, to the ground even as the old man's curse found its mark on the spell caster.

He knew the man was dead as soon as he saw the curse hit him. The jet of blinding green light was unmistakable in any language. When he approached the man's prone form, he paused. It never ceased to startle him how they always appeared to be merely sleeping. He sighed. As he removed the magical dog-tag from the young wizard's form, he bowed his head, "今ライトの兵士として永久に休む。". Realizing that the tag identified the wizard as British, he added, "You go to bed permanently now as a soldier of the light."

Many hours later, the old man stood once again surrounded by his gathering. They were fewer in number now, but no less dedicated to one another than they had been back in Nagoya. In his dirty and bleeding hands, the man held a single chain decked with seventeen tags--his men and women who would never stand in this circle again. He chanted softly to himself, willing the spirits of his brave warriors to remember the teachings of good and to help the living to do so as well. With one final prayer, he lifted his head to his waiting audience and gave the command to go back to Nagoya, to their homeland, to the freedom they had sacrificed so much to secure.

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Author's Note:

Okay, we're three chapters in! What do you think? You probably understand the format a little bit better by now—each chapter is told in third-person from the viewpoint of a different combatant in the Last Battle. I would like to apologize if I have botched any translations past the point of recognition; I am trying to get both content and grammar correct, but it is not always so easy to check. I do not yet know how many chapters it will be, but I am thinking a couple of more and perhaps a second piece for the back-story of the Consolidation? Sound fun? Cool.


	4. Liga da luz

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

Liga da luz-força aérea mágica de Brasil

League of the light-the Magical Air Force of Brazil

In the darkness of the Brazilian night he was jolted out of sleep by the piece of metal he wore around his neck. The coin woven into the threads of the necklace burned hotly across his flesh as he grasped blindly for his wand to acknowledge the message. Swearing in every language he could remember at this hour, he leveled his wand and prepared himself for what was to come. The icy cold water that erupted from the tip served to waken his body far more effectively than any other method he had yet found. He couldn't help that he wasn't a morning person, even if was only…he spared a glance at his watch…Merda, was that really the time? He'd only just gotten to bed and hour ago! He sighed and performed a quick drying spell and readied himself to apparate to the meeting point.

Ten seconds later he found himself in the middle of a swarm of white and blue-clad witches and wizards, all alert and looking far too awake for his state of mind. He gave the timepiece on the wall a glance for confirmation of what he already knew—30 seconds had elapsed since the warning. Shifting his focus slightly to the left, he saw another device indicating that only two personnel had yet to report. The number dropped to zero as he watched. With a grim smile for their efficiency, he addressed the gathering. Another 30 seconds had elapsed by the end of his briefing, and he knew that in 30 more the entire team would reappear on a hillside in the north-westernmost part of France. He was not disappointed. In their line of work, it was all about timing.

Bearing that thought ever in the back of his mind, he glanced again at his watch and then at the airfield his unit had apparated to. Already the flight crews were in position as the flyers mounted their brooms and waited the signal. His watch flashed twice in quick succession, and he fired three shots into the air-yellow, blue, and green. It was time to fly.

The wind whipped past him as he led his team through the skies above the English countryside. With the disillusionment charms and invisibility boosters in place on the riders and brooms, there was little danger of muggles or ground forces seeing them just yet. But the trip was fast approaching the intercept point, and his radar was already beginning to show the faint echoes of spells in flight. It was a matter of perhaps two minutes before they would hit the southeast boundary of the battlefield. If they survived, who knew how long it would take to reach the epicenter? He vowed to himself that he would find out, and live to tell the tale.

An exclamation from one of his portside wingmen interrupted his calculations. The tail of the man's broom was smoking, and the plume was noticeable even if the broom itself was not. "42!" He shouted, amplifying his voice across their enchanted flight gear, "42, agora!" He saw the blips on his radar scatter in a seemingly random pattern, disappear, and then reappear a klick away. His own broom rocketed skyward as he searched for some sign that his flyer had managed to escape the rapidly descending, smoking ruin. His quick eyes noted one of his blips that was out of pattern in the new position. A split second later, the flyer on that broom indicated the possession of extra weight aboard. Relief gave quickly over to strategic maneuvering as the man adjusted his command to this new development.

They were in the battle zone now, and the air was thick with spells gone off target. Still disillusioned, the only way the air forces could be noticed was if they were hit by a passing curse. It was tricky flying at best, but the advantage of being airborne was in the ability to get off spells and get out fast. As of yet, the enemy had not displayed any counter to such tactics. The Dark's lack of belief in the power of the air was one of many faults exploited that chaotic night.

Still, it was not fool-proof work. In the wee hours of the morning, at the height of the battle, a severing charm went vastly off course. The man, already in the middle of a roll to dodge several stray stunners, and shield-less as a result of a misguided hex a moment earlier, was powerless to stop his collision with the brilliant jet of light. Hot agony laced through his shoulder, just above the socket of his left arm. As hurtled toward the earth at a frightening pace, he was vaguely aware that he could no longer see his arm gripping the broomstick—indeed; he could no longer see his arm at all. His last conscious thought as one of his rear guard swooped below his failing flight was a half-formed notion that if he had just sacrificed his left arm and they lost, he was going to be very, very angry.


	5. First Magical Commando Regiment

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

1st Magical Commando Regiment

Trudging through the dense underbrush surrounding the Murrumbidgee River had to be one of the most wonderful jobs on the face of the planet, she thought as she pushed sweaty hair out of her face again. Admittedly, some of the other places she had been sent to in search of Long-necked Bunyips were not so beautiful, but it was hard to recall what exactly was so horrible about this assignment in the face of the current landscape. Maybe it was the familiarity of the continent. Oz would always be her home, no matter where her job sent her, and it was nice to be on her soils again. The crunch of a stick off to her left and a muttered oath made her chuckle. "You're sprung again, mate," she called. A rude comment and a sheepish grin was the only reply as she turned to face her partner.

"You've got ears on ears to hear me the way you do. Dux of your class in tracking, I bet."

"Nah, I'll give you the drum…" she whispered conspiratorially, looking deadly serious as she continued, "Your stealth skills are so bodgy my mam could get the drop on you."

"You having a lend of me again, are ya?" He laughed. It was an old argument.

"Too right, I…" her voice trailed off as heat spread across her wrist. The coin tied there burned with warmth that made her heart skip a beat. She raised her eyes to her companion and saw a similar reaction play across his features. His hand was at his chest, where she knew his coin lay on a length of light rope. As their gazes met, she nodded, and with a flick of the wrist, each disappeared with a small pop.

Several dizzying apparitions and three continents later, they were playing a game of "hurry up and wait". They had made it to the south of England, but could go no further until given the appropriate signal. She knew they had time for cut lunch and maybe a spot of the strong tea offered at this locale. Both her partner and she were a part of the Third Wave which, logically, couldn't head out until after the Second Wave had taken its position. As it stood, Second Wave still had two-and-a-half minutes until their apparition to the battle. So, wait they must.

An hour later found her counting down the last two minutes before departure with her partner. "If you cark it, I'll never forgive you, you know." She whispered, hugging him close.

"You aren't within cooee of holding a grudge against me that long, and you know it." He joked, trying to lessen the tension, but failing. The last five years together had brought them to an unspoken arrangement of sorts, and though neither had mentioned making anything official anytime soon, the thought of losing their bond was unbearable.

"Yeah, too right…but watch yourself, yeah?"

"I will if you do." He promised, holding her eyes with his own. She swallowed and nodded, eyes never breaking the connection. And then it was time. He grabbed her hand as she turned away, pulling her in for one last, crushing kiss. "I love you."

"I love you."

"Let's go."

In the hours that followed, she caught occasional glimpses of him by the flash of spells. Always he looked the same, determined and focused. Those brief reassurances that he still lived ensured that her spells found their marks. Time after time, she fired on the black robed figures.

It should have been late in the morning when she found herself in the branches of an as-of-yet untouched tree, but everything was so dark and foggy, it was impossible to tell. Despite her exhaustion, her wand was steady as she sighted down the shaft at yet another Death Eater. A light snap above her shattered her thoughts on the dark wizard below her and shifted her focus sharply upward. The patch of white mask told her all she needed to know, and with a quick flick of her wrist the offender was toppling to the ground. She fired a rapid silencing spell after the body to muffle the sound of the impact. It wouldn't do to be discovered now that she had such an effective hiding spot. The ghost of a smile crossed her lips as she thought of how her partner would react to the way her hearing had saved herself from Death Eaters as surely as it had always alerted her to his presence behind her. He would tease her no end for that one, she was certain.

She renewed her attacks, waiting until the perfect spot presented itself each time before firing. The banishing spell proved effective in ridding herself of unwanted decedents. But all good hiding spots must come to an end, and hers did after an errant incantation set the top branches of her tree ablaze. With a strong oath for the wizard's poor aim, she apparated to a point several clicks away. She found herself crouched behind the remnants of a scraggly bush in the middle of a fierce firefight a few breaths later. As curse after curse flew overhead, she began to wonder if her partner was still in the fight. The first niggling of doubt started to worm its way into her mind as she considered that they were weekend warriors amongst hard-core evil…no, she wouldn't even entertain that for one mite. He was strong. "She'll be right," she assured herself with an Aussie phrase. It always turned out in the end.

With renewed vigor she continued her assault, meeting curse for curse and hex for hex. She was only peripherally aware of the burns and cuts she sustained from minor spells she had chosen to let through in favor of blocking the big ones. She would make it out of this, and they would move back to Oz for good, she decided. It could be just the two of them in the Australian Outback for the rest of their lives. He loved her, and she loved him. It was silly for them to dance around each other any more. Minutes passed unnoticed as the battle waged on. It was in the middle of a particularly heavy barrage that her luck ran out. As the jet of brilliant green light filled her vision, she could do nothing to stop it. She didn't even have time to be afraid. And then all was dark.

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Author's note:

Another chapter down! There are several phrases in this one that might seem off, but I assure you I acquired them from a knowledgeable source. In particular, the phrase "She'll be right" might be troublesome for a few, but to the Aussie it means, "It'll come out okay." There are just two chapters left to this story (bonus points to anyone who can figure out (in a very general sense) where the last two witches and/or wizards will be from). I fully intend to write a companion piece to this to explain how the Consolidation was formed and fill in a couple of intriguing gaps. Review it if you'd like—I'd certainly love to hear from you.


	6. Glacialis Virga

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

Glacialis Virga

Whoever decided that Neko Harbour was a good place for a secret magical community ought to be summarily hexed, he decided as he pulled his heavy cloak closer and surveyed the frozen landscape…and then he remembered that the aforementioned wizard was already very much dead—just as he had remembered every day for as long as his memories existed. He sighed. Everywhere he looked, there was snow and penguins. Now, don't misunderstand him—snow and penguins were all well and good, but at twenty-eight he felt he should be doing something more than conducting endless research in a continent that no sane person would ever consider visiting, let alone living on. And yet, he couldn't bring himself to actually leave. The sunsets, when they could tell the difference between night and day, were spectacular, and the opportunities for research the total absence of muggles provided, unparalleled. He kept waiting for something to change, waiting to fall in love, waiting to make that one big breakthrough that would alter the course of history forever, just waiting. And though waiting in this cold climate was at times monotonous, terribly lonely, and just plain cold, it was his home.

He had been born in Neko Harbour, and though he had left the Continent for school and research on many occasions, he knew he would likely die here as well. That is, if the war effort in Europe didn't kill him first…which brought him right back to the line of thinking he had been on before he took time out to complete his daily diatribe on the folly of living in Antarctica. The war. The situation in the United Kingdom was fast becoming critical, and he could only hope for a swift resolution to limit the suffering he heard about daily on the wireless. Not for the first time, his hand went to the band he wore beneath his clothing, seeking the coin that was magically bound there. Then his hand shifted to the tags that hung on a chain around his neck, and finally settled on his wand holster, slung low on his hip for an easy cross-draw. It was a familiar circle, a comforting habit in times that were becoming increasingly uncomfortable. "Fortitudine vincimus," he told himself, reassuring his weary soul with the Latin of his craft. "_'By endurance, we conquer'_…but how long must we endure before we conquer?" he asked of the wilderness. As if his plaint was a trigger, the band at his chest burned. He startled briefly, then drew his wand and apparated in one fluid movement. He was done with waiting.

The headquarters of Glacialis Virga was a not exactly a secret, but its night-time activities certainly were. To the casual witch or wizard, Glacialis Virga was one of the most prominent magical research facilities in the world. To those in the know, however, Glacialis Virga was the sixth spoke in the wheel of the Consolidation of Nations. And at the moment, that wheel was turning. The seventh locked door of the research rooms was a flurry of activity as witches and wizards apparated in from across the continent. Heavy fur cloaks with more heating charms than fabric were exchanged for fighting uniforms of ice blue and silver woven of a remarkable substance developed by a pair of British twins. The material was tear-resistant, washable, and treated with a mild shield charm to deflect weak, minor hexes. The most amazing feature of these uniforms, however, was that they appeared as ordinary, non-descript wizard wear to anyone not in possession of a personal set of Consolidation dog-tags. This feature made it possible for Consolidation members to easily identify one another, while Death eaters saw only normal, unorganized witches and wizards. It also had the added benefit of not alerting muggles and the non-Consolidation wizarding public to the presence of the Consolidation underground if they should happen to be seen.

As he slipped into his own uniform, he remembered his initial shock at the progress the twins had made long before they had visited the Glacialis Virga research facility. He had been so amazed with the in-progress defense gear they had brought with them to subject to his intense testing and experimentation regimen that he had actually made a trip to London to visit their main business venture—a rather chaotic and wildly successful joke shop in Diagon Alley. The products there had provided so many ideas for additional research projects that he had to step up his out-of-continent recruiting for talented Arithmanticists and Charmists. This necessity proved to have an unanticipated bonus: several of the new researchers proved to also be invaluable to the Consolidation effort.

It was these new recruits that began winding their way to his side as the crowd of witches and wizards sorted themselves into their individual units. He conducted a quick headcount—four, five…where was that sandy-haired girl…ah, six. With his six companions accounted for, he brought his coin out from his chest band. He touched the tip of his wand to it and watched as it turned blue. Success; they'd portkey to the south of France to cut-down on the number of apparitions they'd have to perform. The nature of their day-jobs made this Antarctic team the natural choice for a sort of "clean-up" crew. They were responsible for keeping muggles and innocent bystander witches and wizards as far away from the battle as possible. It was heavy charmwork, and would require all the strength his unit could spare. "Seven…six…five…" he warned. Seconds later, they were gone.

For a job that was supposed to be a simple game of interference, his team sure was seeing a lot of action, he mused some time later. The entire continent was restless this night, it seemed, and no one wished to stay within the relative safety of their homes. Witches and wizards out for late night strolls had been turned away by the handful and the muggle-repelling charms had to be recast every half hour to keep up with the unusually heavy road traffic. He shuddered as he remembered the muggle who had arrived at precisely the wrong time during the charm reinforcement and ended up waving a metal stick around threatening to "Shoot every one of the maniacs" who were holding up his passage on the roadway. It had taken one very powerful and highly experimental memory modification charm to get the muggle to forget everything he had seen and convince him to go home for some rest. That had been several hours ago now. Since then, the worst that his team had seen was a witch who had not been entirely satisfied with the answers she was getting as to why she couldn't continue on her planned route. That incident had ended with two of his recruits as rather striking-looking barcaloungers, and another speaking in palindromes until a counter curse could be found. It was going to be a long night.

It was sometime into daylight again when his Antarctic team became aware that the battle was beginning to go pear-shaped. The sudden arrival of a silvery messenger was all the warning the group had before several dozen wounded witches and wizards arrived at their roadside post. From what he gathered, the fighting in the core was a bit heavier than the pre-battle estimates, and modifications to the original plan necessitated the evacuation of one of the Consolidation triage points. The Consolidation's chief strategist, a brother of the cloth-maker twins if his memory served him, had chosen this site as a new safe zone due to the well-protected nature of the post. His brief surge of pride at the implied compliment was soon supplanted by his own logical side, which told him that his team of seven could no longer secure this area by itself. He raised his wand to his head and shot off his own message. Moments later, a reply—reinforcements were on the way.

When the glittering phoenix finally soared above the ashes of the battlefield that day, the Glacialis Virga post was playing host to several hundred injured witches and wizards, as well as serving as a place for the unit leaders to claim their dead and send them home. His little Antarctic team was tired but pleased. Several new charms and warding techniques had been tested and proven against the rigors of war. The uniforms that had been so painstakingly crafted had not been able to save everyone, but they had provided enough protection to at least give many a fighting chance. And the tags that the American woman had insisted on, and the Glacialis crew had helped enchant, were making sure that every Consolidation member would be accounted for by day's end. All in all, he was proud of his crew: the battle was over, they were alive, and they had learned many new things to take back to Antarctica with them. Soon they would be headed home. He could almost see the penguins already.


	7. The Scouts

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and his world are the work of the lovely and talented JK Rowling. This piece is merely the product of a devoted fan, and is not intended for profit of any sort.

_The Scouts _

The wild savanna stretched before him in all its majesty. Long, tough grasses sprang from the plains of the African countryside, casting patterned shadows in the final blazes of the evening, the sandy hides of several beasts could be seen moving determinedly towards the watering hole in the distance, and a gentle breeze swirled across the land. It was a breathtaking sight for the sole man on the savanna that evening.

Or it would have been if he hadn't been laying flat on his stomach in the dirt, staring intently at a perfectly straight line through the grasses with all the concentration of a predator stalking its prey. As it was, the intruder scarcely noticed the panorama he was currently residing in, except to note that if he had to wait much longer, the lack of light was going to be a problem for his mission. Slowly, the line continued to advance, and the man readied his equipment. They may have given him the slip last time, but this time he was determined to come out the victor. With extreme care, he positioned himself and raised his arms...and promptly dropped his camera and swore as the coin tucked into his belt burned hot. The sound of the camera hitting the rocky dirt was muffled by the crack of the man's Apparition. Into the rising darkness, the line of wild Streelers continued on their way, unfazed.

He had expected chaos; he had expected anticipation and nervous silence. What he got, as he Apparated into the meeting point, was a kaleidoscope of color and celebration. Drummers and dancers wove through the assembling crowd as though this were a harvest party instead of the revolution he knew it to be. Even as the arriving Scouts exchanged their colored robes, traditional head covers, and safari khaki for the much more streamlined fighting garments, chants rose into the air praising the energy all around them. It was overwhelming, this rush of life, when he considered what exactly it was they were now preparing to do.

It was half an instant later, it seemed, that the well-wishers were gone and a hundred-or-so men and women were gathered in straight lines, waiting. Another half an instant, and they were in a foreign land, surrounded by territory they had only ever seen through the eyes of others. And then there was no time to count the instants. The area must be protected at all costs, and the enemy was near. They had mere moments to form the circle, make the incantation, and pray for absolution for the necessary bad that must be wielded to preserve the good—it was not black magic, as some would claim, and certainly not Dark magic, but it was a brand unseen in these parts of the world, unless someone was very unlucky. And then they waited.

The first time he witnessed the magic at work, he almost lost his dinner. One moment the black robed figures were running flat-out with wands raised; the next moment, there was only blood (or so it seemed). His heart contracted painfully and unexpectedly—these were the bad guys, the ones who would bring innocents to the slaughter just to elevate their own status; why did the deaths bother him so? He dropped to the ground, panting and shaking, unable to function for the briefest of moments as he considered what had just occurred. He had contributed to the deaths of human beings. On an intellectual level, he had expected that it would happen, but to actually participate was another matter entirely. What would this mean for him as an individual, as a person, as a man? He felt dirty and weak. And then he felt pain.

His eyes snapped immediately to the magic that should be protecting not only himself, but the many people within its bounds. It took him half a heartbeat to register that a cutting hex had permeated the shield. The additional realization that this was only possible if the shield was weakening hit his brain not a second later, followed immediately by the heart stopping conclusion that this was entirely his fault. He had let his individual human doubt interfere with the magic of the many. That was a luxury he, as a Scout, could not afford. Ruthlessly, the man shoved his human doubts aside for later study. Raising his wand once more, he began to repair the damage he had caused. The possible implications of what they doing were unimportant in this moment. There was a war going on.

After the fall, the man emerged from the protection of the ancient shield magic and glanced at the still smoking English countryside. He thought not at all on the acts committed in the night; he was consumed wholly by the knowledge that the Scouts and the dozens of incapacitated witches and wizards they had been charged with protecting had all made it through to see the dawn. Moreover, they had all come out, at least physically, unharmed. He touched his hand to his heart and felt the patch embroidered there, "Pamwe Chete!_**" **_it read, "All Together!". Indeed, they had all made it out alive, all together. When it came right down to it, that was all the mattered today. The rest could wait.

--

Author's Note: I would like to lay my most sincere and humble apologies for essentially abandoning this story for the better part of two years. My storied battle had to be put on hold for the realities of my actual military life. I do not apologize for being military, only that I left my readers without warning for such a long space of time. For the record, it's been worth it.

And now, Consolidation is complete!


End file.
